Resolutions
by electricsymphony
Summary: New Years Eve, 1799; Paris. Two old (friends?) reconnect under the Parisian night sky and contemplate the ever-changing nature of their relationship. Are they fated to remain adversaries forever or can the ethereal magic of midnight break down their icy defenses? Kalijah one-shot.


**Notes:** A Kalijah story? Say what now?! Haha, I know-seems strange coming from me. That's because it is strange, and because I'm not a Kalijah shipper. This is a Christmas/New Years Present for Laura, one of my very good friends and one of the most awesome people I know. She puts up with so much Datherine/Elejah/Katlena-smut-ranting from me and reviews all my stories regardless of the ship even when deep down we both know her heart will lie always and forever in Kalijah. So, as my way of acknowledging your awesomeness in many regards (not just reviewing my Elejah) and my thank you for being an awesome friend, I wrote you this. :)

I personally don't think it's up to my usual standard (certainly not up to my usual Datherine standard), and I'll have you know this was a painful process. I watched every Kalijah scene in 2x19 five times each, skipping over the Elejah scenes (blasphemy!) as to not get distracted, and I still struggled heavily with this. I rewrote the middle and end of this a few times. It's very, very hard to write a ship you don't believe in, but I really hope I tapped into my inner-Kalijah fan somewhat here by the end.

I'm sorry I wasn't actually capable of getting this out on Christmas as I'd originally planned, but I hope this is just as good of a surprise as it would've been on Christmas morning. :D

And I know what you're going to say: 'Did you set this in the 18th century just so you could write Kalijah without Damon or Elena being born yet?' to which I declare adamantly: 'You can prove nothing!'

**Second Note: **If my French Revolution History is at all off-point or lacking, please direct all blame to my old obnoxious, monotone high-school French teacher and not me. Thanks.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and A Very Prosperous New Year to all you lovely people. :)

**Disclaimer: **The Vampire Diaries, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to LJ Smith, Kevin Williamson, Julie Plec, The CW, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.

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><p>Amidst rowdy celebration, there was optimism in the air—a thick, tangible mist heavy on her tongue, on everyone's tongue, a battle cry of elation sung in melodic verses from Auteuil to Belleville. The moon hung low over a splattering of stars in the Parisian sky, glistening over the expanse of cobblestone streets and reflecting the wide grins of each joyous passerby. It was a time of momentous change for all of France's inhabitants, and they all knew it. The last ten years had been wrought with horror and strife the likes of which would resonate throughout history for centuries to come. But now—now, the fighting had ceased due to the man known as Napoleon Bonaparte, his new Consulate government and rise as First Consul. Regardless of how the individual felt about the change, its effects on the Parisian people was undeniable. It was the turn of a new century, and a new era, undoubtedly—the old regime was abolished, all its leaders guillotined, and a more representative government left in its wake.<p>

With a new year—a new century—came new ambitions, new plans, a blank slate of which to create a fresh masterpiece. Napoleon Bonaparte was implementing his own stratagem to create such a radical shift, and, in the same vein, so was Katerina Petrova.

She found herself in the heart of raucous Parisian celebration this New Years Eve due more to chance than anything else. The newest witch in one of her loyal bloodlines—Eve, a young French woman who lived as a recluse cramped amongst hordes of piled 'treasures' and faded grimoires—had new information about the doppelganger, and, as such, a trip to Paris was inescapable. While she was here, she might as well enjoy the anonymity and benefits of being one with the crowd.

Tonight, she found herself in a dark, boisterous tavern, once again taking on the role of prostitute—it would certainly not be the first time nor would it be the last—to seduce a man into a false sense of security before lulling them into private quarters and nonchalantly flipping the roles so _she _was the aggressor.

With most men sated and occupied by drink, swaying along in unison to cheers of song, she was beginning to think she was never going to find a suitable candidate—until she heard his voice.

It was as strong and forceful as ever, smooth as silk and rough as gravel, spoken in a drawled, idiomatic French. "Whiskey, good sir." He deposited a fair few coins on the counter and his mouth curved into a smirk, "And what the lady is having, on me."

The man behind the counter sneered at Katerina, eyeing the new arrival and his impeccable dress with a critical eye. "Give 'em whatever he asks for, girl," he directed before descending into the darkness, leaving them entirely alone.

She feels her breath catch as she locks eyes with him, and he tilts his head in curious inquisition, ever cognizant of holding the authority position. She cuts him off before he can utter a syllable, however, and asserts, "I am not now, nor have I ever been, a lady."

The shade of his liquid brown eyes darkens as he leans forward, pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and speaks, in his achingly familiar noble, English drawl; "I beg to differ on both accounts, Miss Petrova."

"Your prerogative, sir," she assents in the same soft, submissive tone she uses with every other man, laced with stiff formality.

Elijah laughs, humorless and tight, his eyes narrowed and dark as he maintains an unnerving eye contact. Most men, she knows from experience, would be looking everywhere but her eyes, but Elijah has never been most men. His voice is soft now, its intonation ripe with disappointment; "How many times am I going to come across you playing the part of whore, Katerina?"

Her lip quirks, the first crack in her façade. "It has its pleasures, _My Lord," _she bites scathingly. He notices with bitter disappointment that her voice is not quite the same; over the span of three centuries, her accent has become complacent, dulled—devoid of that melodic softness and peppered with hardened consonants. It sounds alien coming out of her mouth.

"I'm sure it does," he concedes with a sad smile. He stands, extending his hand in a swift gesture, as Katerina has seen men do time and time again. Her cracked façade cannot mask the lingering shock behind her eyes, and she allows herself to be pulled off the barstool.

"Come outside with me, Katerina," he answers, a bright, genuine smile alight in his eyes; "You do not belong in here and we both know it."

She knows no such thing but she cannot come to remove her hand from his tight yet comforting grasp. He drapes his overcoat over her shoulders and steers her away from the prying eyes of lingering bystanders.

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><p>"Do you believe in life after death?"<p>

They're sitting in the grass, a dark, glistening pond reflecting Katerina's pensive frown as she ponders the answer to her own question.

"Do I—" he begins to echo the question but he finds that it gets caught in his throat, dry and hoarse. "That's an awful question, Katerina. There is no death for creatures like us—we are not shown such a merciful gift, nor do we deserve it."

She smiles, as though she'd been expecting this answer. "Not for _us_, Elijah," she dismisses, a wistful smile on her face; "For them—the masses, the ignorant… the pure, the untainted… what do you think happens to them?"

Elijah sighs, and although her question is unnerving, he cannot help but smile at the way her eyes light up in curiosity as she struggles to grasp a clear answer. This is the Katerina he remembers, the one who was more concerned with memorizing every scroll in his expansive library, more enthralled by the quest for knowledge than driven by her desire to survive. It makes the blood in his body pump steadily faster in his ears. He continues to stare, captivated by the understated beauty of her mind at work, an intelligence he once cherished above all else. "I do not know, Katerina," he answers truthfully; "I admit, I do not want to know."

She tilts her chin up to gaze at him thoughtfully. "And why is that?"

"I do not wish to covet for an impossibility; it would be an exercise in futility."

Her smile is playful, teasing; "And you are nothing if not practical."

"Do you profess to being any different?" His eyes are hardened now, his disposition stiff; "The last time we met, you claimed that your survival from my brother's vicious vendetta was to be your sole purpose."

Her cheeks flush a beautiful rose, whether from the cold or from an embarrassment, he does not know. Her voice is low when she responds, "I admit that I occasionally, when I grow tired and weary of the life I endure, entertain flights of fancy—it gives purpose and meaning to the endless routine."

His tone is sharp, just shy of a reprimand when he asserts, "This is the life you chose for yourself, Katerina."

"So it is," she muses. "So it is." She glares at him, a burning question. "Would you rather I employed the life Klaus chose for me?"

"Of course not," he dismisses immediately, offended.

"I took matters into my own hands," she says resolutely.

He knows very well what transpired, he does not need a reminder. He swallows a rebuttal, not wanting to ruin their pleasant rapport and asks, "Do you ever regret your decision?"

Her conviction cuts sharp into his skin, a knife peeling open a flesh wound. "I do not entertain regrets, Elijah."

He does not believe her, but does not press the issue. As the night sky glitters above them, he begins, "When I was a child, there were many different beliefs and traditions drawing on the wisdom of the age. The tribal people worshipped their gods, held steadfast to their faith, and urged us to do the same. Terrors no man could fathom would befall the houses of the nonbelievers, custom said." His voice held a stronger quality as he continued. "As I travelled the world following my transition, I became accustomed to many different traditions and religions, and I found them all to follow a similar formula. As time passed, I saw firsthand the strife religious differences created, and I could not help but feel very saddened by the wars it begot."

Katerina's eyes were glued to him in rapt contemplation. He did not smile fondly at her this time, too entrenched in his own reminiscing.

"I do not believe in a universal ending to human life, Katerina. I feel that whatever belief a human occupies during their life is what comes to fruition during their afterlife. This is given to them as a mercy for what they endured _during_ life—you can entertain all the flights of fancy you want, but you chose a life of eternal struggle and of no end, Katerina, and in that choice, you sealed your fate." A delicate whisper now, a hoarse sentiment—"You should have died that night, Katerina. You deserved more than this."

"I do not entertain regrets, Elijah," she reiterated again, her tone just shy of agitated, but it was impeded by too much shock to convey any conviction.

"_I do,_" and his voice breaks on this assertion.

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><p>The empty bedsheets next to him when he wakes in the morning smell of lavender and spice, and he's startled to see her naked frame standing in the corner of the room, dressing in her discarded clothes. "This is the last time I will show any lenience with you, Katerina."<p>

She stills, but does not turn around. "If you leave again, I will let Klaus do with you as he pleases. I have already given you more than I would anyone else."

"You ought not feel obligated to uphold your mercy, Elijah." She does not look him in the eye as she continues, "I never asked for it; I do not want it."

He stands in front of her, blocking the door, peering down at her through narrow slits in a fierce anger. "Are you so foolish as to deny me _again? _Twice now have I offered you my refuge, my protection, _your freedom… _everything you say you want, even my love…" he pauses, searches for a flicker of reaction on her stone-cold face; "If my love is not enough, what will be?"

Katerina closes her eyes briefly, damp with wet tears, and when she opens them, the tears have hardened to ice. "I do not believe in love, Elijah."

He chokes at her words, stares at her as if he does not know this woman at all. "You did once," he pleads, in a final attempt to break through her defenses.

Her smile is too cruel, and it does not belong on her face. He can see his brother mirrored so perfectly in her cold gaze, can hear his voice, _('Too many lifetimes ago to matter,') _and he knows he's lost her when all she responds is, "I do not dwell in the past, Elijah; _that_ would be an exercise in futility."


End file.
